A serious case of D(ead) B(rother) S(tuff)

Terry Alan -

I know it's been a while since my last letter. I've been thinking for a few weeks what I would say to you. I'm not sure that I've come to any conclusions or that what I'll end up writing here will make any sense. But Robb and Angie both seem to think it's important that I write this and I trust them to be able to clearly see what I need when I cannot.

I don't want to blame you for the accident, but I need somewhere to lay the blame and I can't think of anyone else. Seems a cheap shot, I know, blaming the dead guy. Sorry, dude. That's just the way it is. There is a part of me that feels you were irresponsible to get in your car that night. That you didn't properly understand the risk you were taking. That it didn't occur to you that it was more than your own life hanging in the balance. As a son, brother, husband and father, I think it was a shitty thing to do to the people you love. And yes, I realize that many people fall asleep at the wheel and never understand how tired they are because it's just a few seconds and there are no consequences. But that's just an excuse and right now, I have no room for them.

I am so angry, I positively vibrate with it. I wash dishes, clean floors and scrub tubs with it. I think I've been angry since May and haven't wanted to acknowledge it for fear that it meant I was angry with you, which would somehow make me a bad person. I'd like to say that I cannot allow that anger to be buried any longer. Truth be told, I don't feel like I have a choice. The anger isn't staying put. It's on the move and coming out whether I like or not.

I'm angry about losing a summer feeling lost and alone. Or feeling numb or so wounded and raw that I could scream or cry for days on end. I am tired all the time and half want to waste the last days of this dreadful summer sleeping because at least I'd be oblivious to the pain inside me. This makes me pissed, because I'm still alive and have much to be thankful for and I should want to get up every morning and face a new day. But I don't. I hate the fact that I feel guilty for how I feel. I'm angry that I feel I need to put on a brave face. And I'm pissed at my lack of willpower, at my inability to pull myself together and go to yoga, take better care of myself and stop eating at Dairy Queen.

It's true. I am hooked on DQ Oreo Blizzards and it's all your fault.

It will come as no surprise that I am angry and hurt that you are dead. That you have been taken away from me. But as each day passes, I get more and more angry with you. If I feel alone, abandoned and betrayed by you, I can only imagine how Jen and Mack feel. It's a sick feeling. I am frustrated that I keep trying to make sense of this, even though I said I wouldn't, even though I know it's not possible. I am angry that your death will never make any sense, may never have meaning, may never have answers: why me, why you, why now, why why why.

I am angry on behalf of Rhyen, who will never know her Daddy. I am angry that she didn't even get one birthday party where she was Daddy's special girl. Her first birthday was such a sad day for me. For Jen. Sadder still because I know that you never would have missed that day. Unless something was terribly wrong.

Which it was. Is. I mean, I guess you were there, but I didn't expect it would be in some fugly marble urn sitting on your own mantle in the basement. I am angry for how much that bothered me. We should have brought you outside.

I am angry because I see how much this has changed Jen and Mack and I can see the hurt and sadness in their eyes when they look at me. I am angry that Mack looks and acts differently, that he has to experience such piercing pain at an early age. I am angry that he seems so full of rage, a rage that no amount of pirate band-aids or wrestling matches can alleviate or take away. I am angry that I cannot fix this for him or Jen or Rhyen or Mom and Dad or Adam or even myself. I am angry that I haven't been able to find anyone who can fix this. This is unfixable and unfair. I keep searching for the phone number or email address of a higher power but haven't come up with anything. Doesn't help that part of me has stopped believing in goodness.

I am angry for how much this hurts, for how long this process is taking, for how sick and tired I am of feeling this way. I am angry at my inability to put these feelings away for even a few hours so that I can concentrate and get my work done. I am angry that I feel like I am slipping. I cannot seem to hold on any longer.

I am angry that I no longer know how to refer to our childhood. Sentences beginnging with "the three of us," seem incorrect or wrong because I never know what verb to use. "The three of us look(ed) so much alike." It pisses me off because I stumble over my words all the time and I should be able to figure this out.

I am angry that I keep dreaming about you. Not because I don't want to see you but because these dreams upset me and I don't know what they mean. I know that I told you that you could, you know, visit me while I was sleeping, but I just wish you were more direct about what you want to say. Just don't give me any bullshit about how I have to take care of myself because I have been doing a fairly good job of that over the past few years.

And if I've fubared myself over the past 3 months, that too would be your fault. I just don't need to get paranoid right now about my body being unhealthy, since it's clear to me that Adam and I no longer have the luxury of dying anytime soon. I think we've both been given 75 year sentences. And yes, I realize that means I'll be roughly 107 years old.

I am angry about the amount of money I'm spending on therapy and massages and trains to Windsor and cabs to Robb's because I cannot stand to spend time alone in my apartment. I had a present from a fairy godmother and that has given me some breathing room and I am most grateful, but I'm angry that your death has forced me to accept a gift that I wouldn't have otherwise accepted because that acceptance is a sign of weakness and I hate being weak and vunerable. It's ironic that you were always concerned that I never had enough money to live in a big, expensive city like Toronto and yet your death has caused this huge financial burden. And it's not like hep-c wasn't one of those in the first place.

I am angry at people who don't understand when I'm tired in the morning and slower or later than normal. Believe me when I say that grief takes a lot out of you. I am supposed to be treating myself as if I had a triple bypass in May. Gentle. Non-critical. If the reality was heart surgery instead of losing you, what do you think I'd be expected to accomplish each day? Not a hell of a lot, likely.

To be clear, I'm not trying to get out of the work I need to do. I'm not using your death as a way to shirk responsibility for my life. On weeks when I don't take vacation time, I put in my hours. I'm angry that people can't take their heads out of their asses long enough to realize that grief is like an episode of depression. And that means that there are a lot of mornings when I don't want to get out of bed. Or do, briefly, only to end up back in bed after breakfast. The day ahead is too daunting.

I am angry that this is as good as it gets. I am angry that people can't figure out for themselves (and need to be told) that I am doing the best I can.

For right now, today, it is enough.

Filed under diary